Wicked

Let it roll over your tongue. Your lips form the same pucker as in a kiss, then you have the sharp sound in the middle, with that definitive d sound at the end.

It has several definitions, but the one I like the best is “Playfully malicious or mischievous.” Playfully malicious.

Doesn’t that just sound like a female dominant? A good one, anyway. Playfully malicious.

drew often refers to me as “wicked.” I do quite like it.

I’ve been accused of having a wicked laugh, and a wicked mind, and a wicked touch. I’ve never denied any of those. I consider them compliments. I like the idea of wickedness.

I think that comes as close to how I feel, too, when I’m doing something, well, something wicked.

I feel playfully malicious. I like making boys squirm, honestly. I like making them beg me for more, for less, for different. I like when they think the dislike pain and discover they quite like it.

I like when they are being manhandled, pushed around, a first experience, often, for men, and they find that they quite like that, as well.

I like when they find a much deeper well of submission than they ever knew existed, and when we both know that it wouldn’t have appeared for anyone else, that it is something in me that awakens that submission in them.

I like when they are in a most vulnerable and compromising predicament – tied to my bed while wearing a woman’s nightie, for instance, or ass up and face down, or blindfolded and bound, not able to move, while their cock’s rigidity disproves any pleas that they are not enjoying themselves.